Without Words
by Kizzia
Summary: Sherlock can't bring himself to ask for the comfort he needs. Thankfully John hears what Sherlock isn't saying. I've written this as BBC Sherlock canon epic bromance, but if you want to wear your slash goggles, they should work fine!


John pushes open the door and surveys the Sherlock shaped lump in the centre of the bed. Not unexpected, not given the circumstances, but not good. Not good at all.

'Sherl-' he starts, but his attempt at communication is cut off by a muffled shout that is, nonetheless, understandable - thanks to the way Sherlock pulls the duvet tighter around himself at the same time.

John's hands curl themselves into fists. He should have punched Gregson. Or Hopkins. Both of them, in fact. Fucking arseholes, waiting until the eleventh hour to call Sherlock in and then insinuating that it was his fault the final victim died. There was literally nothing Sherlock could have done faster, seen quicker, shared sooner. He'd solved it in fifty minutes flat, what more did they sodding well want?

Sherlock had treated them both with the asperity and distain they deserved, but John had seen immediately that their poisoned barbs had struck home. For all Sherlock's certainty, his rationality, his insistence – still – that emotions were beneath him and easily dismissed, he had taken his "failure" to heart. The taxi ride home, conducted in silence, had more than confirmed John was right; it wasn't the normal post case silence that thrummed with the electric excitement of a job well done. No, it was a dead, cold silence, echoing with the harsh whip cracks of self-flagellation. John would have said something then, had opened his mouth to do so, but the dark sadness visible in Sherlock's empty expression had closed his throat, leaving him mute and utterly helpless in the face of such palpable distress.

John swallows, forces the memory away, and looks again at the unmoving mound of duvet covered detective. This will not do. He uncurls his fingers and reaches out, taking one tentative step towards the bed. The lump shifts, moving away from him with surprising speed and he freezes, clenching his jaw until his teeth ache.

Right. Sherlock doesn't want physical contact. Fine. The stubborn sod's probably assuming it's being offered out of sympathy that he neither wants nor believes he deserves.

Well, he's not just going to leave Sherlock here to wallow in misery for god knows how long, but if the direct approach is out then how else is he going to ….

Oh. Yes. Obvious when you think about it.

John exits the room swiftly, leaving the door ajar. It's the work of moments to stick the kettle on, shove bread in the toaster and make sure both Sherlock's phone – abandoned on the table – and his own are switched off. Then, having checked the flat door is locked, he heads upstairs, returning five minutes later clad in a t-shirt and track bottoms that had been languishing, almost forgotten, the back of the wardrobe. One brief book hunt and the swiftest tea and toast making ritual known to man later and he's all set.

The tray containing the mugs, plates and his paperback copy of Treasure Island (he dismissed using Sherlock's hardback copy for fear he might spill something over it) is set down on the bedside table, within easy reach. Then he plonks himself on the bed, with a cheerful admonishment to 'Shove over a bit, Sherlock, otherwise I'll squash you', and wriggles until he's pressed against what he thinks is Sherlock's side and propped up comfortably against pillows and headboard.

'There's tea here,' he continues, addressing the steadfastly unmoving mound, 'and I've drowned yours in milk and sugar, just how your mother makes it. Plus I've done us toast slathered in that Sussex honey you were raving about.'

A hmpf resonates from the depths of the duvet cocoon, but still no movement is forthcoming.

Undeterred, John takes a bite of toast, washing it down with a mouthful of his own tea – containing merely a splash of milk and no sugar – and giving a soft sigh of appreciation as he does so. Then he sets the mug back down, takes up the book, which falls open at his bookmark.

'"Ah," says he,' John begins, attempting a gruff half pirate-ish sort of accent, '"This here is a sweet spot, this island – a sweet spot for a lad to get ashore on. You'll bathe, and you'll climb trees, and you'll hunt goats, you will; and you'll get aloft on them hills like a goat yourself. Why, it makes me young again. I was going to forget my timber leg, I was. It's a pleasant thing …"'

John pauses when Sherlock's head suddenly appears, curls mussed and eyes wary. His gaze is sharp, scouring every inch of John.

'I can find another book, if you don't fancy this one,' John offers after a few minutes of scrutiny.

Sherlock doesn't answer but John sees him give an infinitesimal shake of his head.

'Okay then…. Do you want your tea?'

What might possibly be a shrug happens somewhere under the bundled covers, and then Sherlock moves; shuffling himself round until, still fully duvet-clad, he's sitting up. Facing John, in fact, although his body is ramrod stiff and he's dropped his head so John can't read his expression properly. Nevertheless a hand is shoved out of the cocoon, fingers motioning imperiously in the direction of the bedside table.

John fights down the urge to grin at the incongruous picture Sherlock makes and just passes him his tea. As an afterthought he grabs the plate of toast and settles it on his lap, well within Sherlock's reach.

'Right then,' he says, after another mouthful of his own toast, 'here we go.'

It takes five pages before Sherlock so much as sips his tea and another ten before a piece of toast is snagged from the plate. John just keeps reading, glancing up every now and again as Sherlock begins to yield, white knuckle grip on his mug relaxing and body unwinding until he's slumped so much he's lying next to John, head propped on his arms, eyes closed, breathing deep and slow.

'Alright?' John asks as he rescues the now empty mug from where Sherlock's wedged it between his hip and John's knee.

'Just keep reading,' Sherlock instructs, eyes remaining steadfastly shut.

'Yes sir,' John retorts, but without venom, because the corners of Sherlock's mouth are now curling up into a smile and that's all the answer John needs.


End file.
